


A Little Help Here?

by Kitsune_no_Tora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DIY Medical Care, Episode: s08e21 The Great Escapist, Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_no_Tora/pseuds/Kitsune_no_Tora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You hid the tablet inside yourself? Are you out of your fucking mind? You know, I've heard some crazy ideas in my time, hell, had some of my own, but this? This takes the cake."</p><p>Spoilers for the end of 08x21 "The Great Escapist".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Help Here?

" _Cure a demon?_ " Dean asked, shaking his head as he glanced at Sam in the passenger seat of the impala, the grays and greens of the forest surrounding the highway passing in a blur. "Okay, ignoring the fact that I have no idea what that actually means, if we do this, you get better, right? I mean you stop trying to cough up a lung and...and bumpin’ into furniture?"

"I feel better, yeah." Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Just...having a direction to move in." He did look marginally better, Dean had to admit, but it wasn't by much. The only symptoms he seemed to be missing were the clamminess, high fever, and ringing in the ears from the hotel, and Dean had to admit the entire thing was scaring him more than he was comfortable with. He tightened his grip on the wheel, side-eyeing his brother as he tried to focus on the road.

"Well, good, because where we're headed, it don't sound like a picnic." 

"Well, we're heading somewhere. The end," Sam said, with a note of satisfaction and what sounded like hope in his voice. Dean turned back to the dark road, expression tight. He didn't like the way this was going, but what other direction could it go? He just wasn’t used to things going their way—and he had no reason to suspect that it would this time. Plus with Garth MIA and Castiel who-knows-where (maybe even dead, Kevin had told them Crowley had the angel tablet and it had been coated in blood), their chances weren’t looking too good.

Dean didn't get to dwell too much on that train of thought, though, when he spotted a figure down the road; slumped into a heap under a street light. He slammed on the brakes, instinct and adrenalin pulling the car to a skidding halt just feet from the figure as Dean recognized who it was with an abject kind of horror that wrenched straight through his entire body. There was no mistaking that trenchcoat.

Dean pushed open the door of the impala with a loud creak. "Cas?!"

"A little help here?" he rasped dryly, voice even deeper and rougher than it normally was as he squinted up at them through the light of the impala's headlights, hands clutched around his midsection. With a shocked glance at his brother, Dean slammed the door and rushed to him, pretending he didn't notice the way Sam nearly tripped trying to do the same, and _oh_ , that was a lot of blood.

"What happened?" Dean asked, with a bit more force than he intended. His hands flew to the angel's shoulders and Castiel rolled onto his back with a pained groan.

"Crowley," Castiel panted as Sam pulled his hands away to get a better look at his stomach. "He took the angel tablet. I'm sorry." Dean looked up at Sam to meet his eyes, panicked and wide.

“Shit.”

.~.~.~.~.

The ride back to the Batcave was the kind of quiet that only disaster could bring, aside from Castiel's controlled but still painful breathing in the backseat. The two of them had struggled to haul all six feet of Castiel's vessel into the backseat as he tried to tell them that he was alright.

Dean had never seen anyone less alright. On the amount of blood on the road (and most likely now in his baby’s upholstery) alone, Dean was sure that if Castiel wasn't an angel, he would have long been dead. It looked like someone had gutted him. He wanted to take him to the nearest hospital, but Castiel shot down that idea immediately--citing that he wouldn't be able to evade Naomi or Crowley should they come looking for him. Sam had just looked at him, uncertainty and panic written all over his face, and Dean had gunned it, knuckles whitening on the wheel.

"You hid the tablet _inside yourself_?" Dean shouted once they were safely inside and Castiel was laid on a couch, ignoring that his tone was cracking dangerously toward shrill. "Are you out of your fucking mind? You know, I've heard some crazy ideas in my time, hell, had some of my own, but this? This takes the cake."

"It was the only place I could hide it and still protect it," Castiel replied calmly, and Dean definitely did not miss the way his eyes flitted to the side and the slight wince he tried to hide as he helped him out of his coat and ruined shirt, but decided to not press it. "It was the last place Naomi would look. Unfortunately," he sucked in a breath when Dean pressed the shirt to his stomach to staunch the bleeding, "it was the first place Crowley suspected."

The wound was so much worse than he thought. His abdomen was ripped open in a horrible jagged line—as if Crowley had just stuck his hand right through his flesh—and it looked like he had taken the tablet out with the intent to cause as much damage as he could. "Sam," Dean called over his shoulder, voice dark and curt as he pressed the rapidly reddening shirt to Castiel's wound, eyeing his brother. "Make yourself useful instead of hovering and get the first aid kit."

"Can't he heal himself?" Dean froze amid the buzzing panic to blink at Castiel, his blue eyes as piercing as they ever were. Castiel stared back intently before his eyes shifted to Sam, and then Dean again.

"Why _haven't_ you healed yourself?" Dean found himself asking, even though he already suspected he knew what the answer was. Crowley, or maybe Naomi, had done something to him. Did Naomi get his hands on his head again? Did he just compromise their only safe-house by taking Castiel here?

"It seems the bullet Crowley shot me with has impeded my healing powers. He fashioned an angel blade into bullets. Honestly, I have to admire his ingenuity,” Castiel said with a sort of begrudging respect, although he looked entirely disgusted by it.

"Fuck," was Dean's eloquent response, and Sam rushed off to collect what little they had.

.~.~.~.~.

“Come on man, don’t pass out on me,” Dean whispered, voice tight and strained as he tried to keep his hands steady while he slid the needle through Castiel’s skin. This was so above and beyond what they were prepared to deal with in the bunker, and Dean still held fast to the notion that they needed to go to a hospital and now, but there wasn’t much he could do with Castiel practically bleeding out right in front of him. Dean had zero options for his internal wounds and the jagged edges didn’t quite fit back together correctly. He was sure he wasn’t doing the greatest job stitching him back together, either; but he didn’t have much choice but to trust Cas with this. He had to pull through.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Castiel said, voice fainter and more gravelly than before. “I just need some time to recover and I’ll be able to heal my vessel.”

Dean heard the _I would not die on you_ even if Castiel did not verbalize it. Dean swallowed and returned to his work, not so sure. He couldn’t help but remind himself it had happened before.

So he talked. He asked Castiel to fill them in on what happened, and Sam jabbered on about what they’d been up to, dancing around the subject of Kevin and Metatron. If Castiel was suspicious, he didn’t press it. Dean supposed Sam was just as hesitant as he was to spill about their last bit of hope when they still had no proof Castiel wasn’t still compromised. Dean hated thinking this way, but what choice did he have? Castiel had said Naomi’s connection had been broken in the crypt, but he had been in her presence again since then.

Despite their best efforts, Castiel did pass out. It had alarmed the two of them to say the least; Dean practically jumped out of his skin when Sam stopped hovering to shout Castiel’s name once he stopped responding. After a quick check to see that he was still breathing and had a pulse, Dean was trying his best to control his own breathing, the residuals of his panic still stinging his throat. It was a good thing he was done with the needlework and it was safely away in favor of bandages, because he was pretty sure there was no steadying his hands now.

“What do we do?” Sam asked, tone and expression grim as his eyes darted between him and Castiel. They’d seen him unconscious before, but it was still a startling experience. Seeing Castiel, who didn’t need to sleep, suddenly go unresponsive was not something either of them was ever going to get used to.

Dean sighed, moving to rub at his face tiredly before he remembered that his hands were still tacky with Castiel’s blood. He jerked them away and instead used the motion to stand up and face his brother, expression stern. “‘We’? You are going to bed. You’re still not doin’ so hot,” he put a hand up when Sam started pulling one of his trademark bitchfaces and opened his mouth to protest, “and don’t even try to lie to me about it. I’m serious. I’ll watch Cas.”

“I dunno, Dean, maybe there’s something I could find here that can help, maybe the Men of Letters—”

“Can what, Sam? Magically heal Castiel? Let us know for sure that Naomi’s not still fucking around in his head?” Dean said tiredly, busying himself by picking up Castiel’s ruined shirt and coat. “Somehow, I think this is beyond anything we can find here.”

“It’s still worth a look,” Sam said as he grabbed the first aid kit before giving Dean a searching gaze and walking off towards the library.

Dean sighed, slumping as he collapsed into a nearby chair, wringing Castiel’s bloodied trenchcoat in his hands. His eyes settled on the angel prone on the couch, his complexion pale and slick with sweat and blood. His cheekbone up to the rise of his forehead was turning an ugly shade of purple, and a similar discoloration dotted along his jawline. His nose was still bloody, but it didn’t appear to be actively bleeding anymore, a crusty dark line leading to his lip. Dean felt something ugly and painful clench up in his stomach as a weight settled into his shoulders. Feeling the need to move, as if he were teetering off the edge of something, Dean got up, taking the ruined clothes and dumping them into the laundry sink, trying to focus on cleaning out the blood instead of the emotions roiling in his gut.

He’d been in full crisis-mode the second he spotted Castiel lying broken in the road. Now that the worst seemed to be over, it felt like the weight of the world was crashing down on him. He scrubbed Castiel’s bloodied trenchcoat, trying to lose himself in the repetitive motions and the feeling of rough cloth slickened with detergent between his fingers; keeping his mind away from Sam clomping around the other room searching for answers and Castiel unconscious and torn apart so badly Dean wasn’t sure he was going to make it. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, the taste making his stomach roll even more, and scrubbed until the tan fabric peeked out through all the red and the soap rinsed clear.

It wasn’t completely clean of all the blood, but it was the best he could do. Cas would just have to angel mojo the rest of it clean once he was awake and healed. Dean had to believe that he would. So he hung it up to dry and grabbed a clean rag, dousing it with warm water before heading back to the couch. Castiel was still lying there, shirtless and breathing shallowly, face pulled tight in pain even in his sleep. Red was already peeking through the layers of bandages—he’d probably have to change them soon. Dean pulled over a chair from the table, the legs screeching against the marble as he set it down and sat in it, reaching up with the warm towel to wipe at Castiel’s face. He washed away the dirt and blood from his bruised eyes and cheeks; from the curve of his nose and the crease of his lips.

His hands were trembling again. He clenched the rag in his fist, biting his tongue as he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands to try to ease the tremors. “Dammit, Cas…” he whispered, dropping the rag to rub at his face, his gaze settling on the angel’s. “Don’t you dare die on me.” Dean inhaled, slow and measured, letting the slow exhale soothe his nerves. “We need you, man. I need you.”

.~.~.~.~.


End file.
